Diary of a Part-Time Alcoholic
by year-of-the-pineapple
Summary: A collection of drabbles detailing Shane's daily interactions with mental health, alcohol abuse and pepper poppers.
1. Chapter 1 - Spring

_Day 1 of Spring_

* * *

Spring was undeniably beautiful in Pelican Town. The trees regained all those beautiful leaves; for so long lost to wind or cold, rustling gently in the restorative new warmth of the air.

It was also a time of relative buzz among the few residents, suddenly able to nurture and grow all the crops that they'd had to hoard all winter long.

In the air, tiny pink petal blossoms drift delicately through the quiet village scenery. A few tentatively land on Shane's head, and he self-consciously brushes them off.

In the streets, there seemed to be some hubbub- something about a new resident. Someone to clear up that abandoned old farm north of Marnie's place.

It didn't matter much to him.

He walks to work, the same half an hour route he takes every morning and tries not to notice the bushes around him springing to life with salmonberries. On the way past the pharmacy, he spies Pierre out the corner of his eye, through his shop window. The guy doesn't look happy or sad, just a little disappointed as he observes Shane's shabby blue Joja's jacket and cap, crinkled up in his pocket.

Shane shoves his hands in his pockets and walks faster.

On the way, someone- Lewis, maybe- tries to talk to him about something to do with the town, the new resident. He pulls his hoodie straps, so it partially obscures his vision as he speeds up even more.

_Yoba, at this rate I'll actually be on time for work_, he thinks to himself, swatting away some of the pale petals which had been about to land in his eye.

He _really_ wasn't a fan of Spring.


	2. Chapter 2 - Spring

Day 5 of Spring

* * *

When he first got this job, it had been a lifeline for him. Someone like him, with all his predisposition to mental illness, well, moping around the house all day was just about the last thing he needed to be doing. Back in those days, stacking shelves felt like some semblance of freedom- he could flick a switch on the dark spiral that consumed his mind and hey presto! A whole day would fly by where Shane barely even remembered how depressed he was.

Now, as he hauls yet another crate of carrots across the shop floor at ten past nine on a Tuesday, it doesn't feel so liberating. Depression was a slimy son of a bitch, and as his shifts went out, he found it harder to stay distracted enough to successfully flick that switch.

The evenings seemed to be easier, somehow. The promise of a quiet night at the saloon while he nursed pint after pint and nobody bothered him was an easy sell, and besides. The sort of people who would hang out there late were _his_ sort of people anyway.

Pam, with her deep, croaky voice and penchant for drinking more pale ale, litre by litre, than Shane himself. He always got this twisted feeling that she understood, somehow. Maybe not the extent of his depression, but a kindred spirit in the sense that they both needed booze to unwind, take life's edge off.

Sebastian, too. For all his skinny post-goth idiocy, he too seemed to be a kindred spirit. Once every few months him and Sebastian would sit, side-by-side, drinking their cares away and watching the night disappear in front of them. Mostly done in silence, occasionally they'd share the odd flippant comment about how shitty things were.

Shane always got the distinct feeling that it was a little put-on. For his image, that kind of thing. Everyone knew how kids his age could be.

And then there was Emily. Understanding, kind-hearted Emily who served him his beers each and every day and never batted an eyelid, the saint. She must have known that he was killing himself slowly, but if she did she never outwardly judged him for it.

For that he was grateful.

"Shane, could you help me with these crates, please?"

He cranes his neck round from the carrots and realises that he's just spend five good minutes daydreaming about drinking and chastises himself inwardly.

"Sorry," he apologises redundantly to his co-worker, the name of which currently escapes him. He can't remember her name, but he doesn't really care. The girl is almost completely devoid of a personality; in his head, he privately referred to her as 'NPC girl'.

It's fitting, really. She's a metaphor for every retail worker he's ever known, even himself. Once someone, now just a faceless, nameless badge ripped clean free of any shred of individuality. Without any point of reference to go back to, she'd become like so many others: a soulless corporate drone, with no hope of-

"Shane!" his sharp-tongued manager cuts in. "Alice is asking you for something! And what do we do when our co-workers need help?"

"Um. Help?" Shane replies, a little dry in the mouth.

"That's right!" Morris beams with the sort of grating faux positivity you could only achieve after twenty-plus years in the retail industry.

Shane turns to his colleague and manages a sickly grimace in her direction.

_Alice, that's her name, then._


	3. Chapter 3 - Spring

_Day 8 of Spring_

* * *

Sometimes Shane wonders what he would do in this town if the saloon wasn't open every night. Part of him wonders if maybe he wouldn't drink so much every night, but, let's face it- he drank heavily before he moved here. It's not like not having a bar to go to hadn't stopped him before.

In that sense, he figures maybe the bar is good for him- at least at the bar, he can only purchase beer. Nice, cheap, lukewarm, refreshing beer; drunk under the guise of socialising with fellow villagers, a thin veil as far as they were concerned.

It was probably better than getting blackout drunk from whiskey every night.

"Hey, Shane," Emily greets him with a pleasant smile. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He fidgets. "Pint of lager."

Emily nods and turns around to grab a glass as he slams a ten down on the table. He wasn't angry, or anything. But it wasn't his first tonight; he'd sunk four cans back at Marnie's place.

Emily turns back around and pulls his pint, attempting some friendly eye contact.

"You met the new chick in town yet?"

Shane shrugs. "Everyone keeps asking me."

"Well… have you? She lives practically next door."

"Don't think so." He thanks her for the beer and shoves his change in his pocket, immediately lowering himself to the rim and taking a gulp. "Why?"

Emily smiles. "I think you'd remember. She's pretty."

"She's nice enough. A little bland for my taste, but what do I know?" Pam pipes up from next to him at the bar. "She's got her work cut out for her on that old farm, though. It's a real fixer-upper, last I saw."

Shane blinks and nods, not sure what else to contribute to the conversation. "I'm sure she won't stay long," he prophesizes, his voice a little hollow. He doesn't want to talk, not today.

"Why not?" Emily pipes up.

"This town's a hick town. She's city folk." Shane gulps again at the froth of his beer, eyeing up the spot he usually sulks in with a little longing.

"Well, you're here, aren't ya?" Pam laughs. "If you're so miserable here, why don't you just leave town? It's not like we'd miss ya sulking your way through every town event," she ribs him lightly, but he doesn't laugh. He scowls a little and shrugs it off; goes to stand in his favourite little corner and settles down for the night.

He doesn't bother telling Pam that he'd be miserable anywhere he went.


	4. Chapter 4 - Shane & the Salmonberries

**Whoever reviewed this, I really wanted to thank you so much! I hadn't written in ages as I've been busy with work but your review was a serious boost to spend 20 minutes in a coffeeshop typing this crap out. I wish you'd reviewed with an account so I could send you a proper message instead of this!**

**But I digress.**

* * *

Little known fact: Shane hates Salmonberry.

It's a stupid fruit, it really is. I mean, come on, _salmonberry_? It even _sounds_ made up.

But unfortunately, it was spring, and so every single bush in sight was suddenly chock-a-block with the little bastards.

It also meant that Marnie had taken it upon herself to bake a salmonberry pie every night this week, and of course, he hated to disappoint her by refusing to eat her cooking.

He eats them all up like a polite little nephew.

Salmonberry pie for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

It's no wonder he's starting to put on a little weight.

He thinks all this sourly, digging into his fourth portion of the pie that day - a perpetual frown carved into his features.

Later that night, he's in his sitting room pondering why they're called salmonberries. They don't taste like salmon, or even smell like salmon.

Maybe it was the color?

He scowls and buries himself further into the coach, angry that he's been thinking about salmonberries all day.

The TV starts to hurt his eyes as he stares intently at it, trying his damndest to relax and let his mind shut off, but it just won't.

Salmon! Who the fuck names a berry after a fish?

He growls, grabbing the remote and flipping off the TV with it, enjoying the resonating silence that rings around the room once the screen turns black.

He takes a breath in and glances to the side of the couch, spotting an old book sitting on the end table there.

For a second, he ponders reaching for it and maybe reading a page or two – god knows he needed to get back into reading, somehow – but then the doorbell rings and he slumps back down.

"COME IN!" he yells, not moving a muscle to answer the door.

To his surprise, in walks the new girl; the farmer. Fresh from the fields with mud on her knees and a beam on her face, she radiates health and positivity.

His blood boils.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought you something! To apologise for the other night, at the bar. I know I upset you, and I was being-" she starts, wiping her wellington boots on the mat in the hallway. He cuts her off.

"What did you bring? I don't like gifts…"

"Just a jar of homemade salmonberry preserve. I just built my own keg out of maple wood, and I was testing it out. Thought you'd m-maybe want to try one of the first batches of-"

"Is this…salmonberry?" he asks, trepidatious. He squeezes the bridge of his nose in annoyance and hands the jar back to her. "Why would you give me this? I don't know you."

She clutches the jar tightly, blinking slowly as if she doesn't quite understand.

"I just… I just thought…"

"Well, stop thinking. I hate salmonberry, I hate preserves, and I _hate_ unwanted social interaction." He pauses to take in the heartbroken look on Becca's face. "You know what's so annoying about you? You gave me this because you're desperate to make friends, yet you didn't take any time to think about whether I want to be friends with you. Then, you gave me a jam made of something I hate- and now, I look like an asshole because I don't want your shitty gift. You've basically given me an obligation in a jar, you realise that?" he scowls.

She nods and shrugs. "OK. I got it. Well… see you later, I guess."

"Not if I see you first," he promises, a scowl still screwing up his features.

The door clicks shut as she leaves; slowly; resigned.

Shane basks in the aftermath of the pure vitriol that had just fallen out his mouth and a sigh escapes him.

Shit.

Had he really just said all that?


	5. Chapter 5 - Still Spring I'm Afraid

"Who are you taking to the flower dance, Sebastian?" he overhears Emily's gratingly positive tone intrude upon his relaxing beer, as it so often tended to.

"I dunno," Sebastian shrugs, giving her a strange look. "Why should I take anyone?"

"Because!" Emily replies brightly. "It's tradition that all Pelican Town bachelors attend and dance. It's good fortune for finding your soulmate!"

Sebastian makes a flippant sound of disagreement and rolls his eyes, but not before his gaze flickers nervously to and from the direction of Abigail, who's currently kicking Sam's ass at Junimo Kart.

_Oh, so Sebastian likes Abigail, then. Big deal._

Shane sinks a little lower into his leather chair and hopes that he's suitably invisible. "And Shane…?"

He coughs, poorly masking his indifference. "…what?"

"Who are you going to ask?" she repeats herself, gratingly chipper as per usual. He makes a face and doesn't reply.

"You'd take a pint of lager if it batted its eyes right at you," Pam, sitting just left of them on a bearby barstool, grins and points at him. "I know you."

"Did anyone ask you, Pam?" he scowls and refuses to take another sip, annoyed that Emily would embarrass him by asking and annoyed that Pam would make fun of him. He turns to Emily. "Nobody," he says moodily. "I doubt anyone will want me to dance with them."

She smiles, apparently completely immune to his particular brand of curdling pessimism. "Why not? You're good-looking, you're a nice guy… well, _some_ of the time. I've no idea why you don't think any of the bachelorettes in town would be interested in you." She pauses. "Besides. I know loads of girls who fancy broody guys."

He doesn't dignify that ridiculous notion with a response, instead opting to stare intently at the wall in the opposite direction and ignore her. He's painfully aware that he's being incredibly rude, and that it isn't going to reflect well on his relationships with the townspeople.

He just can't seem to find the motivation to give a shit.

Besides, he thinks, she's wasting her time – he's long accepted that he's not one of those people who gets to have relationships. It was tough enough being him, the last thing he wanted was to drag some poor unsuspecting soul into his train wreck of a life alongside him.

_No, no, no. _He hadn't dated since his early twenties, and he's not sure that he's got the confidence – or the looks – anymore.

He's so lost in his reverie of misery that it takes him a few seconds to realise that Emily is still talking.  
"That new farmer girl is single, I think. She lives in that tiny little shack all by herself. Why don't you ask her? I'm sure she'd appreciate the company!" Emily chimes in. "And you could-"

Shane makes a snort of derision. "No way. I… don't like her."

"You don't like _anybody_," Emily frowns.

"The feeling is mutual!" Gus guffaws from behind the bar, wiping down glasses with a mirthful grin on his face. Shane narrows his eyes at the man and everybody ignores his outburst.

"Yeah, well, people are generally best avoided." He effectively ends the conversation, pouring the remainder of his beer into his mouth and slamming it down on the wooden table in front of him. Emily wrinkles up her nose and sends him a 'suit yourself' kind of expression. "_Fuck_ people."

"Here, _here_!" Sebastian, who apparently was still listening in, chimes with a smirk and the two of them clink glasses as they enjoy a brief and rare second of introverted pride. Shane fears that the irony of the moment is lost on Sebastian.

As the conversation naturally shifts on to something else - something stupid, like how pretty the Jazz flowers were now that they were fully in season- he finds himself eyeing up his unlikely companion in misanthopy.

He doesn't know what Sebastian has to be so moody about, anyhow. Shane has long suspected that he uses that whole 'The world doesn't understand me' rhetoric as a way of getting girls to like him. And if town gossip was to be trusted, it had worked on a few girls, at least.

Shane stares at his beer glass, hard. He saw the way that Sebastian blushed when Abigail was mentioned. The boy was just a kid. There's no way he really understood what it was like to feel like Shane did. There's no way he felt that cavernous, hollow feeling in his chest – the hole where Shane's joy and love of life was supposed to be.

Now filled with the love of his life, beer.

He snorts to himself, eliciting a strange reaction from some of the townsfolk who are still aware of his presence at the table. _It seems Pam had hit the nail on the head, after all._

* * *

**I uploaded this like a dumbass last time, and I'm only just getting around to fixing my mistake. Sorry!**


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